Poem 61

Upward lifting forces are the driving survival, a thrust for the air
and with it comes a raking across the subtle side of bones
and what drones inside wakes instead a jaw locking breech.
But below, where the cold sleeps scale side flicking through
basket pattern breathing aparatti, comes not one sound but
many. If the whispering masses cut short in their cement shoes
could shout everything all at once: silence is the loudest kind of sound.
From beneath, wrapped like the mischevious in darkess, were it only
for ears tuned to the pitch appropriate or eyes focused accurately
in spite of survival, a clatter might meet a breath-broken secretkeeper:
There where the sun claps quietly upon itself. There where coins pickle
peculiar in sailor-bed rust. There. Hush. It’s beginning.
Advertisements

Please Join the Conversation

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s